Fred and Vie

Would stay for hours in front of the window on my old rickety chair, elbows on the table, staring down the concrete road. Nothing ever happened, once those that were going to work, had gone, once the kids had strolled off to school. The monotony  broken only by the milkman, his cart whining slowly round the oblong. The front room window always unlatched for him to put the milk in.

A car nosed its way into the flats ..turned my way. A new Austin A.40. It cruised slowly towards me 'Gliksten's School of Motoring' stretched across the roof. I was only supposed to turn out three hours during the evening, six till nine at four and six per hour, not anything at all, enough to buy me cups of coffee and give my mother her two pounds a week. Lately, they had started putting more punters my way. Waved to Ted from the window, who was shouting something about my being a lazy bastard, which was true, and that I was to get out and do some work. Made the appropriate sign to him, puled my clothes on and went  out into reality.

Gerry Gliksten, quite tall, fat, young, thick horne rimmed glasses and full of himself. He,  his wife ran the business from a tiny shop in the Lower Clapton Road. Really only half a shop, there being two separate doorways at an angle to each other.

Boom time. Apparently, the whole world wanted to drive ... at twelve and six a lesson ... well, that's what they called them ... Whatever, he had twenty, thirty cars, all grinding their way around London.

Ted did all the dirty work, hiring and firing, he who had first taken me on, although I had not possessed an English licence to drive. He thought that the Aussie one was good enough, but not till after taking me round, doing sharp left hand turns at thirty miles an hour. We would get right to a corner and he would say 'turn left' without any prior warning. You either went round, rolled over or kept going.

Gerry had looked at him when he casually mentioned that I did not have a current licence but that  was all, he had other things brewing, Gerry deciding that as everyone had so much money, not only would he teach them to drive, but would make a package of it and sell them a car too. He was rapidly expanding in the cheap car market. Whatever he touched, turned to gold.

Gerry beamed, condescendingly at me when I walked into the shop ... Knew that he wanted something.

"Hello Peter ... I suppose you wish you were in the outback now." he said passing a job card to me, smiling at his little joke.

The rain hammering..running in rivulets down the shop window. Looked at the card ... he had cajoled someone into signing up and paying in advance for twenty four lessons. Decided that the person must be a millionaire or an idiot. Vaguely I wondered what this Mr. F. Robinson was all about.

Gerry became very patronising, whispering loudly

"Now I would take care of this Gentleman."

Gentleman, I thought.

"Give him your very best" ... this time looking straight at me, meaning that I was actually push it rather than the reverse.

"He is going to have two hours at a time."

Disagreed with the two hour period. After the initial forty minutes, most people had had enough. Usually spent the reminder of the time riding round doing the work myself, or if a bird, giving it the chat. Gerry spluttered on, the words falling heavily from his thick lips.

"Mr. Robinson wants twelve to two six days a week, starting now."

He looked at the heavy, solid gold watch on his thick, ugly, hairy wrist.

Filled the job card in, had time to go round the cafe for a cup of tea and a sandwich ... as I was about to become rich, a bacon one, then see what this matter was all about

Seven Nightingale Road was a typical two story, terraced house of the late eighteen hundreds,  The first floor double windows boasted a chandelier and very expensive drapes. Lying in the gutter outside, a very expensive A 60 estate, brand new. This one house and its attachment stuck out like a sore thumb in a run down street of sagging dilapidation. A heavy whiff of money exuding from the street door. Nevertheless looking as if its last coat of paint had been about nineteen ten. The rain hurried down. No way was I getting out and taking the three short steps across the pavement to knock on the ancient wrought iron knocker. Anyway, had the feeling that my approach had been noted all I needed was to sit and wait.

Finally the street door opened and a guy came out, behind him, lurking in the doorway,  a woman, apparently urging him on. The man, quite fat, not tall, dressed in tweed trousers , jacket, shirt, collar,  tie, trilby hat and grasping a umbrella. Momentarily, thought it must have been the insurance man calling, but no, he headed straight towards me approaching the car as if not knowing what to do. Reached over and opened the nearside door indicating for him to go round and get in. He managed this after knocking his hat off and getting the umbrella caught up in the open door. Hardly believed this pantomime. Half thought that the man was wynding me up. But no, he was serious, very. Slipped it into gear and eased into the rain, nodding to the anxious lady, still standing hesitant, in the doorway.

Fred Robinson would never drive so long as he had a hole in his backside ... that was for sure. He puffed, panted, wiped his spectacles repeatedly, loosened his tie. The slightest opportunity to stop, did so and produced yet another cigarette from a heavy gold case. Perpetually in a state over some impending disaster or other. As the days crept into weeks,  ceased attempting the impossible, why knock myself out? Tried to work the job card over to Tom, he was placid, long suffering. But Tom, on his arrival at Nightingale Road, was promptly sent away - Gliksten hearing about this subtle move on my part, made noises that he could possibly see his way clear to give me another sixpence an hour, if I persevered. Every man has his price, it never materialized. Gliksten  very keen to hang on to Fred, besides the money, Fred was some kind of television writer, Gliksten looked on this as doing something for the firm's status……

Had been sitting up in Fred's front room, the one with the chandelier and the expensive drapes. He, I and the anxious lady who turned out to be his wife, nursemaid and  brains behind the organization. Heavy cut glass in hand, three parts full of Gordon's, cigarette in the other.

"You know," she said, "Fred wrote the Larkins" ... my face stayed blank.

Fred laughed "What, someone who had never heard of the Larkins."

Evidently, Vie, pissed off with Fred dilly dallying, had shot up the West End one night and thrust the manuscript of this saga into the hands of a somewhat startled impresario as he came from the theatre. The result of this piece of action had been that Fred had become elevated from a builders clerk complete with bicycle clips to a personality complete with all the trappings,including a new red car but no license to drive it.

Fred, by now,  slowly angling "Wouldn't it be great if I were to drive him here, or there, or anywhere" - the new red car with fifty seven miles on the clock sat in solitary splendour outside,                      Slowly, the rain turning to rust  its hidden insides. Each day they would go out and pat it, open the doors, close them, wipe it over, admire it, but move it, never.

Perhaps the Gin than virtually flowed like water, the very comfortable surroundings, or maybe, simply whatever else, Fred being one of those rare creatures, a gentleman. It became quite difficult to refuse his obsession with the car. Fortunately an automatic. After convincing him unnecessary to press the brake and the accelerator simultaneously flat to the floor with the most hair raising results, did things settle down. Had a great deal of misgiving about not having the duals, no way could I stop him once he put his head down, my only hope was to attempt to grab the handbrake , at the same time switch the ignition off.

Vie too, crept onto the scene, she too the complete non-driver, but she was determined, her determination overcoming, her total ignorance of what was entailed in driving.

Okay so long as two, three, four large gins had passed her lips before setting out. She realized that the car miraculously drove itself and quickly worked out the reason, but she was not complaining "anything to get out of that madhouse" nodding towards the street door with the ancient wrought iron knocker, Fred peering through the expensive drapes, glass in one hand, cigarette in the other. She hated Fred's mother whose house it had been since the year dot. Fred having been conceived and born in it,  never knowing any other environment. The mother still lurked somewhere in the dark downstairs. Never seen sight of her on my repeated climb to the apartment above, but  never missed that sense of being watched.

Vie also suggested  I take Miss Crawford round there. Apparently  deciding I needed a 'nice girl' to look after me.